This night's hand stretched
across purpled green,
a finger pointed
at the hills. We say,
"we understand, we see"
when there is nothing.
Shadows of nothing-
an errant arrow, a poisoned
owl, the jagged flight of moths
makes its way back
to our darkening window.
Whose blessed vision flies
or walks a straight line?
Who returns from long, blind
journeys with unspent spine?
Even proud willows
bow over the lake
when evening comes.
No comments:
Post a Comment